‘One person who never or almost never missed those daily meetings in La Font was me. Shortly before getting into Zarco’s gang I began to live by an invariable routine: I’d get up about noon, have breakfast, read or loaf around until lunchtime and, when my parents went to have their siesta and my sister went back to work at the pharmaceutical lab, I left and didn’t come back till the early hours of the morning. Around three or three-thirty in the afternoon I’d get to La Font and, while waiting for my friends, I’d talk to the landlady or her customers. I sort of made friends with some of them, especially with Córdoba, a small, scraggy man with a felt hat, always dressed in black and always with a toothpick between his lips, who often bought me beers while we talked about red-light-district things; but I also made friends with an old Communist prostitute called Eulalia, who never raised her large glasses of anisette without toasting the health of La Pasionaria and the hoped-for death of the traitor Carrillo; or with a salesman of pipes, peanuts and candies called Herminio, who would show up at La Font mostly on the weekends and talk about bullfighting and recite poetry in an impossible Catalan and predict the end of the world and the invasion of the planet by extraterrestrials, before visiting all the brothels, offering his wares in a wicker basket; or with a couple of lingerie and trinket salesmen whose names I never knew or have forgotten, two twin brothers who’d arrive after eating lunch in a downtown restaurant, fat, congested and sweaty, with a couple of cheap cigars in their mouths and a couple of patched suitcases in their hands, and leave at dinner time bragging at the top of their voices of having sold their best pieces.
‘My friends would start to show up about four or four-thirty, and from that moment on we’d spend the afternoon talking, going out to smoke joints on Galligants Bridge and drinking beer among the lush collection of hookers, Gypsies, hawkers, hustlers, quinquis, lost causes and crooks who tended to congregate in La Font, until around midnight, after eating a snack somewhere, we went to Rufus to end the day. This happened especially at the beginning, during the first two or three weeks, when there were whole evenings when we practically never left the district. Then we began to escape as a rule to the coast or inland, and La Font became just a meeting place. But by then we were already a fully fledged criminal gang, or just about, and everything had changed.’
‘Before you tell me, let me ask you a question I’ve been wondering about for a while now.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Didn’t you see your friends from Caterina Albert Street again?’
‘That summer? Once or twice, hardly at all, and only just in passing. As I said I would leave the house at three or three-thirty in the afternoon and not return until the early hours, so it was unlikely I’d run into them; besides, we didn’t go to the same places. Anyway, the one I didn’t bump into again was Batista. Why do you ask?’
‘I was wondering if you hadn’t wanted to take revenge on them, if it hadn’t at least occurred to you. You could have tried to get Zarco and company to teach Batista a lesson, for example.’
‘I might have thought about it at some point, but I doubt it: I never had enough confidence with them to dare to ask them something like that. For one thing because I would have had to tell them what Batista and the rest had done to me, and I didn’t want to do that. Don’t you understand? I felt ashamed and guilty about what had happened, I wanted to erase it. I suppose that’s also why I’d gone with Zarco and Tere: to begin a new life, as they say, because I wanted to be someone else, reinvent myself, change my skin, stop being a snake and turn into a dragon, like the heroes of Liang Shan Po. That was what I wanted and, although of course I would have enjoyed getting revenge, given the circumstances it was impossible, at least for the moment. Besides, remember that I had the impression that my old friends and Zarco’s gang lived in different worlds, just like my parents and I, just like my old self and the new me; like I said before: Zarco and I lived very close to each other and very far away, separated by an abyss.’
‘The water margin.’
‘Yes, that border, Liang Shan Po: call it whatever you want.’
‘One more thing. Inspector Cuenca told me that at the time the police had absolute control of the red-light district.’
‘It’s true. Absolute or almost absolute. Later, in the eighties and nineties, everything changed: they abandoned the neighbourhood to its fate, washed their hands of it, and the neighbourhood deteriorated and ended up going to hell. Or not, depending on your point of view. In any case the district disappeared. But in my day they controlled everything: there were always a couple of secret police there, they inspected the bars and the brothels, kept an eye on the hookers, stopped people in the street at all hours, asked for your papers, searched you, asked you what you were doing, where you were going.’
‘Did they ever stop you?’
‘Lots of times.’
‘And didn’t it matter? I mean: weren’t you scared? Didn’t you think the police might tell your parents? Didn’t you think you might get arrested and locked up?’
‘Of course I thought all that, of course I was scared. Anybody would be. But that was just the first few times. Not later. After a while, getting stopped by the cops became part of the routine. Bear in mind that what my parents thought or might no longer think mattered less and less to me. And, as far as getting caught, well, I was sixteen years old and knew that at my age I wasn’t going to end up in juvenile court or a reformatory, but directly in jail, but it seems to me that for any kid that age prison, until he gets locked up there or actually sees the writing on the wall, is more or less like death: something that happens to other people.’
‘You’re right, only you weren’t just any old kid: you didn’t stop committing crimes from the time you met Zarco, or helping to commit them; in other words you didn’t stop giving them reasons to put you in jail.’
‘True, but that’s the secret: the more crimes you commit without anything happening to you, the less fear you have of everything and the more convinced you are that they’ll never catch you and that prison is not for you. It’s as if you’re anaesthetized, or armour-plated. You feel good; or to put it a better way, you feel fucking great: apart from sex and drugs, at sixteen I didn’t know anything better than that.’
‘Tell me about the crimes you guys committed.’
‘At first, more or less up to the month of August, we mostly snatched handbags, robbed houses and stole cars. Stealing cars was so easy that we’d steal them at the drop of a hat, sometimes more than one a day, not always because we needed one but simply because we liked the car and wanted to take a ride in it, or to see who could steal one faster. The fastest were Zarco and Tío, who could get a car open in less than a minute and that’s why they were always in different groups. I learned to open cars straight away, and to start them and drive them. There’s no secret to driving cars, much less to hot-wiring them: first you snap the steering lock with a sharp turn of the wheel, then you identify the power wire, the contact wire and the starter wire and finally you put the three of them together. Getting the cars open, however, was another story; there were several systems: the simplest was to kick in the little window beside the driver’s window, reach in and open the door with your hand; for the more sophisticated method you needed a sawblade with a hook at one end and enough skill to get the blade through the crack between the window and the door and the hook around the lock so you could pull it up. This is the system we tended to use, because it was quicker and more discreet (I watched with my own eyes as Zarco resorted to it on various occasions in places full of people, in plain view of everyone and without anyone noticing what he was doing); but the most common system was to open the car door by picking the lock with one of those keys for opening a tin of sardines or tuna. Anyway, everyone in the gang – some more, some less – knew how to do all these things, and Zarco better than anybody, because he’d been stealing cars since he was six or seven years old. But just because it was very easy to do and we did it every day doesn’t mean t
hat every once in a while we didn’t get a good scare and sometimes, I at least, was very scared while doing it.’
‘In spite of the anaesthesia and armour-plating?’
‘In spite of the anaesthesia and armour-plating. Habit teaches you how to handle part of the fear; but you can never learn how to handle fear as a whole: it almost always handles you.
‘I remember for example one time in La Bisbal, an afternoon in the middle of July. Zarco, Gordo, Drácula and I were in a Renault 5, and as we drove through town we decided to stop for a beer. We parked in a street backing off the main highway, drank a beer while we played table football in a bar called El Teatret and when we went back to the car we saw a Citroën Tiburón parked next to it. Do you remember that beauty? Now it’s an old relic, although back then you didn’t see too many of them either. Anyway. There was no one in sight, so we didn’t even have to exchange a single word before deciding we’d take it. Drácula ran to one corner of the street and I went to the other while Zarco and Gordo stayed by the Tiburón and got down to work. Since the street was not long, I got to my corner straight away, and as soon as I leaned around it saw two cops coming towards me on motorbikes; I should say: I didn’t see them coming but bearing down on me. I doubt the cops suspected what we were up to, but I turned around and ran towards my friends shouting that the cops were coming. All three took off as fast as they could: Drácula immediately vanished and behind him Zarco and Gordo vanished too. Hearing the noise of the motorbikes getting closer and closer, I ran past the Tiburón, turned the corner my friends had just turned, saw that I’d lost them and, as I turned the next corner, found myself running alone under a colonnade, beside the main road, through a commotion of pedestrians getting out of my way and people sitting on the patios of bars. That was when panic overcame me and I knew for certain two complementary things at once: the first was that the two cops had got off their motorbikes and given up chasing my friends and were now only chasing me; the second is that they were going to trap me because I wasn’t going to have time to get to the next corner. And that was when I made an irrational decision, an absurd decision dictated by panic that in hindsight seems dictated by someone who has learned to handle panic: in the middle of the crowd coming out of the shops and bars, drawn by the disturbance, I stopped dead, took off my jean jacket, threw it on the ground, turned around and, pretending to limp and with my heart pounding in my throat, started to walk towards the two cops, who flashed past and vanished behind me around a corner while I quickened my pace and vanished around the opposite corner.’
‘You were saved by a miracle.’
‘Literally.’
‘Now I understand why you said that was a very serious game, in which you risked everything.’
‘Did I say that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well it’s true. And it was also an unending game; or rather, the end could only be catastrophic: the risk anaesthetized you, armour-plated you, but to keep playing you had to keep taking risks, you had to do something for which neither the anaesthetic nor the armour-plating could protect you, so you constantly had to run greater risks. I don’t know if this was conscious, maybe not, or not entirely, but that’s how it was. The fact is that as well as stealing cars, and robbing the occasional house, at first we mainly snatched handbags (tanks, we called them), probably because it seemed as simple and low risk as stealing cars. The proof is that sometimes we’d do it when we didn’t even need money, like stealing cars, almost as a sport or a bit of entertainment; the best proof is that I dared to do it very soon.’
‘How did you do it?’
‘The way we all did: grabbing them. I’ve since read that a famous juvenile delinquent of the time said that Zarco invented the grab and all he did was borrow it from Zarco or from Zarco’s film character; maybe you read that too in some cutting in my file . . . It might be true, I’m not saying it’s not, although I tend to believe that this kind of thing says more about Zarco’s legend than reality: after all, there’s almost nothing connected to the juvenile violence of the time that hasn’t been attributed directly or indirectly to him. Because when it comes down to it grabbing a handbag is such an elemental thing that nobody really needed to invent it. All you had to do was steal a car and choose a suitable victim and location: the ideal victim was an older woman with a wealthy appearance if possible and the ideal location was an out-of-the-way sidestreet, solitary if possible; once chosen, the driver approached the victim from behind and drove slowly beside her and at this moment I, who would be sitting in the front passenger seat, had two options: one – the simplest and best – consisted of sticking my body out the window and grabbing the handbag away from the victim in one yank; the other – more complicated, that we’d only use when there was no other choice – consisted of jumping out of the moving car, running to the victim, snatching the bag and, once it was in my hands, running and jumping back in the car. The only precaution I took in both cases consisted of taking off my glasses so the victim couldn’t recognize me by them. Like I said it was a very simple thing, and comparatively low risk; of course low earning too, because there normally wasn’t a lot of money in the stolen handbags. Anyhow, at first that was the kind of robbery in which I most frequently played the part of protagonist, although not the only one: now I remember, for example, one afternoon when I stole the day’s takings from a refreshment stand on the beach in Tossa while Tere distracted the manager by flirting with him. But that wasn’t very usual. The usual was that I played the part of bait or front, or I just kept a lookout while the rest worked, or did both successively. That’s what I’d done the first time I robbed with them, the afternoon in La Montgoda, and that’s what I kept doing throughout the month of July, up until Guille’s death and Chino, Tío and Drácula’s arrest changed things.’
‘It’s odd. The way you tell the story, anyone might think that it wasn’t you who joined up with Zarco’s gang but Zarco who recruited you.’
‘It doesn’t strike me as a mistaken deduction. Although probably the two things happened at once; in other words: that I needed what Zarco had and that Zarco needed what I had.’
‘I understand what you might have needed from Zarco, but what could Zarco have needed from you? That you acted as bait or a front, as you put it?’
‘Sure. That was useful for a gang like that; besides, remember what Tere told me to convince me to come with them on the robbery in La Montgoda: they needed someone like me, someone who looked like a student at the Marists’ school with a face like he’d never broken a plate, someone who spoke Catalan . . . I think that’s what Zarco thought of me, at least at first. Do you remember the character of Gafitas in the first part of that film Wild Boys? Obviously, that’s based on me, was inspired by me, and the Zarco of the film recruits him for his fictional gang for the same reason I believe the real Zarco recruited me for his gang in reality: so I could act as bait or as a front. Anyway, I’m not saying that Zarco went to the Vilaró arcade looking for me on purpose or anything like that; what I think happened is that our paths crossed by chance at the arcade and that, when he realized I could be useful to him, he did everything he could to keep me. Probably including inventing an attack on the arcade.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, most likely Zarco never had any intention of robbing the Vilaró arcade. Neither Zarco nor Guille, or anybody else either. It’s possible. The truth is it wasn’t the kind of job they were doing then, without guns or anything, so it’s possible that Zarco invented it to scare me so I would ask him not to do it and he would do me a false favour and I would feel obliged to owe him one.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘No, not sure, although once Zarco told me that was what happened.’
‘What other things do you think Zarco might have done to recruit you?’
‘Are you thinking of something in particular?’
‘The same as you.’
‘What am I thinking of?’
‘Tere. Do you
think Zarco could have convinced her to do what she did?’
‘You mean what happened in the washrooms of the Vilaró arcade?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t know. There were times when I thought that and other times when I thought not; now I don’t know what to think. Besides, I don’t think this has anything to do with your book, so we better change the subject.’
Outlaws Page 8
